Down From the Door Where It Began
by Lyrical Ballads
Summary: Post-Quest. Pippin reflects upon the changes in himself and knows that he'll never be the same hobbit again. No slash.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Lord of the Rings._ Title of the fic also belongs to Tolkien.

**Author's Note:** I haven't written a _LotR_ fic in a while, but I'm currently re-reading the books and got the urge to write something. This is just a short, reflective piece, strictly bookverse.

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**Down From the Door Where It Began**

Pippin sat before the fire with his sword in his lap, feeling cold in spite of the flames that crackled on the hearth. He always felt cold when left to his own devices, all alone with nothing but thoughts and memories for company, and this was especially true as the clock on the mantlepiece struck the hour of midnight. The house in Crickhollow that had once belonged to Frodo had stood empty and alone for many months, waiting for the return of a master who had never intended to live there, and now it served as a comfortable home for Pippin and Merry, who both desired a bit of distance from their families after their year-long absence.

The sword in Pippin's lap felt heavy, reminding him of all the horrors he had faced while wielding it. His blade had seen orcs, ruffians, and even a troll, drawing blood so many times he feared he would never wash it from his memory. And yet part of him hoped he would never forget, for his battle experiences had become a part of him, as much a part as all the songs and tales he had learned on his travels, and all the friendships he had gained. His faithful sword, the bane of trolls and other monstrous creatures, was irrevocably tied to Pippin for as long as he lived, serving as a reminder of all that he had seen and done in the wide world.

Pippin sighed, gently tracing the polished hilt with a finger. Nobody in the Shire, aside from Merry and perhaps Sam and Frodo, to a certain extent, would ever understand what this blade had done. The dear ignorant hobbits of the Shire watched him and Merry ride about in their finery, thinking they looked regal with their armor and weaponry, and Pippin would agree that he _did_ look quite dashing in his fine garb from Gondor, but at the back of his mind he felt out of place.

Most hobbits thought that he and Merry had seen nothing but glory and grand adventures, hence the fine attire and shining blades, and Pippin couldn't bear to correct them. It was much better to put on a cheerful face and let them believe that no unspeakable horrors had darkened his path, and sometimes he could even convince himself that all was well and always had been.

But he couldn't escape the past when he sat in an easy chair before the fire, all alone while Merry slept down the hall, and listened to the clock tick steadily past midnight.

He sheathed his sword and placed it upon the floor, then leaned back in his chair and gazed into the fire, trying to let its warmth soothe him to sleep. Instead of feeling tired he felt more awake than ever before, filled with a restless energy that pestered him like a particularly stubborn itch. He stood up without quite knowing why and walked away from the fire, away from the flames and towards the moonlight that illuminated the rest of the house in a faint glow. The house had plenty of windows and Pippin let his feet carry him wherever they willed, letting the moonlight be his guide.

His wanderings took him to the bath, where the same three tubs sat in a row, and suddenly he was no longer a glorified knight trying to fit back into his old life, but a young, eager hobbit with hope and unknown possibilities before him. He was his younger self all over again, trapped in a vivid memory of his first real adventure—was it really more than a year ago?—when he accompanied Frodo and Sam from Hobbiton to Crickhollow, to the very house he currently stood in.

How innocent his younger self was. He had been quite startled by the Black Riders he encountered with Frodo and Sam, of course, but his spirits were as high as ever and his eyes were bright when he discovered that a nice hot bath would be his reward for trekking across the Shire. In those days he thought that hardship involved a lack of food, baths, and a good pipe, and Pippin remembered how he indulged in the steaming hot water and suds, thinking of nothing but his own comfort.

What a naïve, spoiled young hobbit he was.

Pippin reached out and gently traced one of the tubs with his hand, remembering how he had splashed water _everywhere _in his exuberance_. _What did it matter if Black Riders were out and about, trying to hunt for that silly old ring? As long as there was plenty of bath water and a nice, hot meal to enjoy afterwards, all was right in the world in the younger Pippin's eyes.

How nice it would have been if Frodo really _had_ settled here in this house more than a year ago, free from any knowledge of rings or quests or Black Riders. How nice and safe they would have all been if they had never left the Shire, and yet how perfectly dull. For how could Pippin return to the same old life when he had seen so much?

He wandered away from the bath, letting the moonlight guide him back to the fireplace, and one of Bilbo's songs came to him as he walked. He could remember the tune as clear as day, but for some reason he couldn't recall any of the words, for they spoke of a happier time, a more innocent time free from the taint of evil.

He had tried enjoying those old songs and visiting his old haunts around the Shire, hoping to recapture his former self, but too much had happened in the course of a year. Pippin felt different the way one season blended into the next, or the way one year turned into another. Different the way he tried to put on his favorite coat, only to find that he had outgrown it. He had been a different hobbit only a year ago. An entirely different hobbit.

Somebody was sitting in his chair when he returned to the fire, holding the sword he had left on the floor, and Pippin would have been surprised if it was any other hobbit, but he knew that nothing escaped Merry's notice, even in the middle of the night. Pippin treaded softly across the floor, strongly reminded of the times when he was little and got caught wandering out of bed, and took the empty seat beside his cousin.

"I couldn't sleep," he said sheepishly.

"I know," said Merry. He looked down at Pippin's sword, following the fine craftsmanship with his eyes. "Who would have thought that a hobbit of the Shire would own such a tool?"

"And know how to use it," Pippin added.

"It's a pity that my first blade was destroyed. And yet I don't think I would have been able to look upon it, even if it had survived."

Pippin didn't think he could look upon it either, knowing that such a blade had pierced a deadly being as evil as the Witch-King. He knew that Merry still had nightmares sometimes, dark dreams that reminded him of the shadow that had nearly claimed him in Minas Tirith. Pippin himself had woken up in a sweat several times, troubled by memories of the Palantir in his sleep.

"I don't suppose the two of us will ever be free, will we?" Pippin murmured. "It's restless evenings and sleepless nights for both of us from now on."

Merry nodded and handed the sword back to Pippin, gently placing the strange yet familiar weight into his hands. "We've seen a lot, you and I," he said. "Do you regret it?"

"No," Pippin said truthfully, holding the sword in his lap once more. "No, I don't."

He didn't regret it at all.


End file.
